Hope is a Waking Dream
by rednecksaints
Summary: "Hope is a waking dream." ― Aristotle


" _ **Hope is a waking dream."**_

― _**Aristotle**_

He takes her hands.

In the dim of the light within the surrounding houses, he can't see them well, but he can feel them. They're ice. And they're thin. Rough with calluses. She fought with these hands. Clawed her way out of the pits of hell and forged a path that led her home. They led her here. To him.

She's trembling. It's far from cold outside, but her body shivers with small tremors as she stands in front of him. He can feel that too. She's like a steady earthquake that reverberates against his own body. They're far too close. People are watching, but it would seem that most of the crowd has dissipated - scattered and retreated back to their homes for the night. The excitement is over, after all. The ghost returned, and now there's nothing much for her to do but float about. They'll ask her their burning questions tomorrow. They'll probe her for details about her miraculous survival and her escape from Atlanta. They'll need to absorb it all in excruciating detail in order to understand what exactly happened, but they'll never _get_ it. They'll never truly _know_ what it all meant.

But he does.

He knows exactly what this means. He understands full and well what had to happen in order for her to be returned to him. Because she is here for _him_. This is it. This is his second chance. He lost her, and now she's back. Throughout all the time they spent together, he purposefully forced himself to keep her at a distance without being a complete dick about it, and still… he somehow fell so deeply in love with this girl that he's yet to see the scope of it. It was literally like falling into a hole - one that was bottomless and inky-black. It surrounded him in a shroud of emotion he'd never felt before, and now - with her standing here in front of him, alive and well - he's only just been able to see the light.

For she _is_ the light.

They've yet to exchange words. Not out loud, anyway. So much is being said just by the way she's looking at him. He knows merely by the desperation in her eyes that this moment is nearly as important to her as it is to him. They've been waiting for it, and now it's here. But what now? What can he do to move forward? What actions would make this reunion mean something? He missed her so much. His heart was broken. Actually broken - it felt like glass cutting his insides and rubbing against his lungs making it hard to breathe. Hard to swallow. Hard to think. He'd never hurt that like before, and he certainly never felt healed. Not even now. It'll be a long while before what's been damaged by time and separation can be fully mended, but his next move is what will kickstart the recovery. Whatever he chooses to do now will define everything from here on out. He thinks she's aware of that, and it's probably why she's trembling.

So, before he loses his nerve, he laces his fingers through her hand that he's already been holding and leads her inside. His house isn't like the others. He's yet to really make it a home, so there are very few clues alluding to the fact that this is _his_ living room their stepping into. It's just a room. There's a couch, a coffee table, a tall grandfather clock and a couple of worn leather bound books on a shelf. It's nothing impressive. It's nothing he'd fancy himself with on any given day, but it fills the space. She's taking it in, though. As if the things in this room actually say something about him. Maybe it does. Maybe the lack of personal touch means more than he realizes. Of course she'd see right through him before he even has a chance to defend himself. She's good like that. Always has been.

She stops suddenly and drops his hand. There's a moment when he thinks she's changed her mind. He fears she might have overestimated her feelings towards him. Being here is too much, and she's regretting running into his arms the way she did. But then he looks at her, and he knows he's wrong.

She's unbuttoning her sweater. Her fingers fumble over the fabric, and he can see every tiny scrap and cut that layer her knuckles. There's a bruise just above her left wrist, and he wonders whether it was a human or a Walker that she was fighting to get away from. Her sweater hits the floor, and soon after her shirt follows. She doesn't stop there. She's unzipping her jeans. Kicking off her boots. And then she's standing there in front of him in just her underwear with an expression of utmost patience on her face. She's filthy. The layer of dirt that cakes her skin makes her look twice as dark as she should be. It disguises the pale, milky smoothness he remembers so fondly, but it reminds him that she's dangerous. She's not a child. Not anymore.

He can't make himself move. He wants to. Everything in him is begging to reach out and touch her, but his mind is numb and his body is frozen. She's so fucking beautiful, and she's right here. He had dreams about this. About what he would do if he saw her again. About the words he should have said at that kitchen table before she was taken. He could have told he loved her, but he was afraid. He's still afraid, but he's not nearly as stupid. This moment is real. It's happening, and he's not going to let it slip by.

When he does move, it's with a single step. Towards her. Towards what he wants. And she mimics him. He waits a moment, and then he does it again, but this time she stays where she is. He removes his vest. Pulls his shirt over his head and loosens his belt. She focuses on his eyes. Even when he steps out of his pants, she never looks away from them. Her lips part, and with a single breath she speaks his name.

"Daryl."

There's nothing stopping him now. He goes to her. Carefully, yet still with a great bit of force, he reaches out and pulls her to him. She slams against his chest, and then his mouth is on hers. Not even a breath of fresh air could cleanse the way she does. Her lips pump him with new life. They brush sloppily over his, and with every rushed and beautiful movement he's pulled further and further out of his own body. It's like watching a motion picture dance in front of him. It's the most cinematically graceful thing he's ever experienced.

Her hands find his chest. They dig into the muscles at his back and claw their way down his spine. It stings - makes him hiss and groan into her mouth - but he can't imagine letting this sensational feeling go away. He drops to his knees. Kisses a path from her chest to her navel and continues all the way down until he's between her legs. He nibbles at the inside of her thigh, and she digs her fingers in his hair. She's trembling again. The muscles in her legs shudder as he plants intimate kisses around her core. There's too much between him and what he wants, so he yanks the thin cloth panties down to her feet, and then she's bare before him.

Everything about this feels completely out of character. This isn't him. He wouldn't have the nerve to be this bold in a normal situation on a normal day, but what the fuck about any of this is normal? Throw away the dead walking among them and the living trying to kill and scavenge and survive, and it'd still be aberrant. Their relationship has never been typical. It's never been easy or predictable or even comfortable. It's rough like the calluses on her hands. It's frantic like the thrust of her hips as she pushes herself into him. Silently begging. Quieting screaming.

He follows his instincts and uses his tongue. She tastes like dirt and sweat and god knows what else, but fuck it all to hell. Her body is his playground, and he'll be damned if he doesn't explore it to the fullest. She's writhing against him as he plunges two fingers inside of her heat. She's slick and warm. Already eager for something neither of them knew was coming. Or did they? Had they not been building towards this all along? Even in that funeral home? Even as he watched her play the piano while he rested in his coffin? Did he not imagine what her soft skin would feel like under his touch?

She lets out a low and decisive moan. She wants more. She knew how far she wanted this to go when she walked through that door, but she's letting him know that it's okay to continue. He can push it forward if he wants to, and he does. He most definitely does. So, he pulls her gently to the floor. Spreads her body out before him like an offering and lowers himself until he's pressed against her. Flesh against flesh, they meld into one another as if their skin is molten - forging as one before everything turns to ash. He sinks into her, and it's complete. Nothing can separate them now. Not even death.

He closes his eyes, but when he opens them… it's over.

He's alone in a bed that was never truly his - in a house that was never really a home.

He had dreams about this. And he still does.


End file.
